I didn't write a real letter; it seemed a bit silly, but I wish I had. I want them to know. I want their teachers to know about our family …
What better word to hear than the one that links us together?
I long for those days of little toes, ones that fit neatly in the palm of my hand and required no socks or shoes, tucked in wonderful outfits with built in feet.
I won’t allow myself to give into the fear that terror provides, and I refuse to let my kids live in fear of terrorism.
I watch you struggling to hold the pieces in a puzzle that is being not only turned upside but physically shaken by life and what it has offered you.
“Is he spoiled?” she asked, not once but three times, as I couldn’t hear her over the hysterical crying of my son, Amos, strapped in the baby seat of the cart, slightly damp from the late afternoon rain.